November 25th, 2006
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Fat color, a laugh; it’s interesting, but I am still here
As time goes by, Bill Murray plays in more and more interesting films. I just finished watching The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, on my hit list of pictures with flair to see. Next is Broken Flowers, if it’s been released here yet. Jarmusch is already a hero to me for Dead Man, so I can only anticipate that Murray + Jarmusch will be quite intriguing.
But that’s the backdrop for this stream of consciousness post. I am two and a half glasses into a bottle of Chianti I got at the ‘Ho last night, and it’s the waning light of four o’clock in late November that’s put a chill into my bones. So I spent a few minutes trying to think of what was the most glowingly warm piece of clothing that I had. After several thoughts of how wonderful it would be to have a shirt that irradiated warmth, I reflected that I have no super cuddly warm shirts, and in one’s place that only an enveloping female in a knotty sweater would suffice. I’m short on those at the moment though, so I decided to settle for my linen jacket that was purchased in Bangkok. My hair is fluffed and slightly moist despite the dry weather, Laraaji echoes from the Onkyos across the room, and I am without friction, grinding my gears on yet another weekend with a dusty, smudged home and a score of useless affectations soaking up decay in this cold-sucking environment.
Today, what was/is today? Today seems over though only four, for it’s dark and cold and I feel less and less that I can make an impact. I feel like I should work with my photography, I should do this and that, a list pages long of renovations and self-improvements, but the hypocrisy of it all sees me exhausted emotionally and wallowing in the half-covering blanket of self-pity. I can’t work at m computer with aplomb if my entire desk area is greased-covered in disarray. Woe is me, poor me, so much more fortunate than the man who sleeps on the splintered bench in the freezing rain just outside my window, while I wring my hands and think of how I am such an utterly intractable person, and reflective of so many failings that humanity likes to turn a blind eye to. Sloth, but sloth, lazy am I afraid of the mess, making excuses of a chance to really clean, no time to really fix anything properly because nothing can every be restored to its original splendor short of moving, throwing it all away and starting again– the classic capitalist parasite and his disposable world. Out of sight and out of mind, the Sidewinder joystick given to me which I have no need for whatsoever finds its way into the trash and a landfill and the cable to strangle some bird while the mercury in the chips edges its way into the ground water to damn a hundred generations of children after me living in a world of far less bluer skies.
No no no no, what I am I about, really? No one understands me except myself for all my shortcomings, and how much I work to fix them I never get anywhere for my body is willing but my mind is weak, so weak, spoiled with the soft rot of so many fruits I bought for health and left on the shelf. Or perhaps someone half-understands because I really am all that simple and they just don’t say anything because saying doesn’t change anything, besides they’ve got their lives and how many times do I have to ramble like this, the diarrhea of my hemorrhaging mind, ejaculating in spurtsfrom the headless husk of an ego and onto everything and every person I come across, leaving the sticky film of my waste like an unpurgeable veneer.
I hate being like this.
